I hear footsteps above my bathroom ceiling. 

There’s a girl about my age who lives upstairs—

I imagine she also likes to watch the sun sink 

below the horizon, turning the day to dusk

when the sky is a swirl of orange and purple. 

Tonight, her usual, rhythmic steps deviate

into melodic ones, crossing through doorways 

to the kitchen and living room. 

I don’t think the noise to be bothersome—

I look in my bathroom mirror, 

framed by a string of hushed orange fairy lights,

and see myself when I dance around my apartment, 

listening to music that sounds like serotonin 

and for a few moments, no problem is too heavy.

I realize that my footsteps mimic the ones I hear from upstairs.

I hope she is dancing to our favorite songs and remembers 

that this, the lightness, is the whole point of existing.